Friday, December 21, 2007

Christmas Sucks.

Christmas is LAME. LAME in all CAPS. I know that people love them some X-Mas, but I feel like it’s a bunch of stupid traditions and capitalism meant to boost 4th quarter sales numbers for the US economy.

Call me the Grinch or Scrooge. I’m all that times 40 this year.

Yes Christmas, that magic time where people-

-Max out their credit cards

-Buy other people they don’t like trinkets just so they can be social and not look like assholes, even though 99% of people are just that, dumb assholes

-Get stressed out because they don’t get their Year End Bonus (which just happened to me. I now feel like Clark Fucking Griswald, my boss just gave me a gift card and said, “Oh yeah, I forgot to give you a bonus check.” What the hell am I supposed to say to that? “Go get your check book?” I’m screwed. Maybe I can buy Christmas gifts with the Bloomingdales gift card he gave me.)

-Pretend to like their family members.

I know that I’m supposed to feel like there is some sort of spirit inside me, making me want to be with my family and spread cheer throughout the countryside by spending crazy amounts of cash. Sorry, that’s not me, not now. My Motto- Life’s a bitch and then you die. Not exactly Rudolph and Frosty material.

I don’t want to spend every last penny from my tiny bank account and the last thousand on my credit limit for everyone presents. I’m fucking broke bitches! You guys are rich, buy yourself something cool. Don’t make me feel cheap because I don’t have enough cash to buy you something. Yet, in keeping with tradition, I need to spend my rent money to buy a shit load of gifts so that I wake up after New Years broke and thinking I need to pull a bank job so I don’t evicted. But don’t complain J- IT’S TRADITION!

And even if I buy a gift for someone, if I don’t spend at least a hundred bucks, the gift is most likely going to be something they don’t like or won’t use. Shit, most people’s gifts get used once the day of Christmas and then tossed aside and eventually tossed out.

And shouldn’t there be equality for what you’re gifting and receiving? If I give a kick ass expensive gift that I put a ton of thought into (for example the one I gave to my boss, fucking crap) you need to make sure you come correct on my gift bitches. I’m broke and I’m busting my ass to spend a buttfuck ton of money so that you won’t throw out my gift and you give me a gift card! WTF!?!?!?! This fucking gifting thing is redick. Fo reala!

And it’s not the gifting/broke thing that bugs me the most. It’s the supposed HOLIDAY part.

You have to spend time with your family for the holiday, even if that means you must drive or fly (in post 9/11 holiday airport hell) to the ends of the Earth to see them. That sounds like a nice relaxing start and end to anyone’s holiday.

I’ll be driving to Phoenix (instead of dealing with those lines) Sunday morning for my lovely holiday with my lovely family.

Is this what I really want to do with my time off? Hell no. I’d rather stay at home and panhandle for spare change to supplement my piteous income, but I don’t have a choice. I just really want a day to hang out in my apartment by myself, write and play guitar. Is that too much to ask? It should be my holiday right?

See in there lies the problem. If this is really supposed to be a ‘holiday’ or ‘vacation’, where is the rest and relaxation? Where is the stress free environment? Where’s the fun?

I need a serious battery recharge, and I really need to get some writing done. Too bad people don’t pay me for this blog, hahahahaha, like that would ever happen.

Until they get their shit straight with the sell-out commercial, rush around and feel stress, count me out.

PS- I think this will be the last post for a little while with Christmas coming up. I might sneak one in at ‘home’ for my ‘restful vacation’ of last minute shopping, annoying family members and driving in shitty traffic. Hooray!

Thursday, December 20, 2007

In Limbo

Kevin awoke with a pain in his head. A pain that he couldn’t shake. His entire field of vision was clouded, his eyes felt like burning coals inside that box he called his face.

He licked the palm of his hand and held it up to his left ear. His ears had been ringing for days, a constant dull tone that muffled even the sounds of his own body writhing on the floor. He wished to hear a sign of something outside or around him but it was futile. He hadn’t heard a peep of the tiniest sound from anyone or anything but himself.

When his sight returned to him, as if it was a gift given to him for a short time, he crawled on his belly to the only thing he could look at in the darkness. A shaft of light, no bigger than a pencil, lay on the floor before him. The sharp cutting aches pierced his spine as he slowly moved, inch by inch, minute by minute, until he laid to rest with his face cast in the dull light.

While he lay there, he hoped that the light would bring some warmth to his body, which had been uncontrollably shivering, but it wasn’t in the cards. Kevin wondered where the illumination was coming from, why it was there and what he did to deserve such company. He wondered a lot that day (or was it days?) that he lay in the alabaster glow of his only friend left, a sliver of artificial sodium light.

Mostly he wondered how he ended up in here, this trap, this cage, this prison. He knew that he had bigger plans and even bigger dreams for his life than slowly dying in room where the ceiling was only two feet from the floor. But yet there he was, lying there in that strange place, confused.

Kevin tried to speak, but his words choked out into an incomprehensible slur of grunts and sighs. He reached up for his throat, his larynx was a mutilated mess; cartilage and sinew bent in odd shapes beneath his weak skin. But it’s just the same, there wasn’t anyone there to hear him, nor would anyone want to hear what he had to say.

Besides, everyone else was there with him, even if they didn’t know it.

He always wondered what the meaning of life was and more specifically what the meaning of his life was, but now none of that mattered. He figured he didn’t have much longer.

He slowly turned his body and more importantly his head to try to peer into the source of the light. He finally aligned himself right under the shaft, his left eye blinded by the dull light that seemed intense in comparison to the oily blackness in Kevin’s cage. He thought he might be able to see outside, to the world that he once knew, once took for granted, but could see nothing but the burning rays in his left eye and the dark in his right.

So he closed both eyes and stopping searching, stopped trying. It would all be done soon, he hoped. It would all come crashing down, running into him, sucking the air from his lungs.

He remembered a vacant night from his past. It was a hot summer day, just after dusk. He had been sprinting through the meadows, chasing after lightning bugs and catching them in an old jam jar. Suddenly in the distance, a bolt of lightning struck a large oak tree, cracking it in half and starting it on fire. Kevin stood there awestruck, accidentally releasing his captive prey from their glass cage. From his perspective, the green dots of the bugs danced in front of that orange fire playfully. He smiled, a sight he would never forget.

And with that, it was all gone.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Michigan Time Warp

Going to Michigan is like going back in time.

Michigan is locked in its past, its traditions, its old fashioned ways. Everything seems like America, but in the late 80’s. Not that there isn’t all the modern trappings of American society; there are strip malls, computers, Starbucks on every corner etc. But the people and rules are from the past.

People are… wait for it… friendly. You see someone on the street, they say hello to you. I know you’re asking yourself, “What? How? And you don’t know these people at all before hand?” Yeah, I’m surprised also. I sat down at the bar at my sister’s work and had a two hour conversation with a bunch of people who didn’t know me from anyone else. And it was like we were old friends catching up, trading war stories and drinking beers. This brings up another topic all together…

People in Michigan drink… a lot. And often. And by themselves. Its not uncommon to go to the bar by yourself and have a couple dozen drinks.

Its totally cool to have an adult drink, whenever, wherever. If you’re about to jump on the road, sit down and have a beer. Even if its 9:30 AM. You’re having a bad morning? Pound a shot with me.

The funny thing is, I kind of like this brazen form of alcoholic debauchery. It leads to happy people who are very out-going. What’s wrong with that? I mean besides the chance of car accidents, drunken fist fights and swollen livers.

When I was at the bar the first night back, someone light up a cigarette… in the bar! I was confounded and confused. I nearly smacked the cig out of her hand when I realized, of course, she could light up wherever, its Michigan. There are no smoking bans, light that bitch up. You’re sitting at church, let’s have a smoke (although I don’t know if any one actually does this, but I wouldn’t be surprised…)

I’m not a smoker but I like the old school nature of being able to smoke where ever. It seems like movie set in a seedy place. It makes things seem edgy.

These three things are status quo in Ann Arbor Michigan. It makes me think of that show “Mad Men” which is set in the 1950’s, where all the characters smoke at work, drink high balls in their offices and are hell of lot nicer to random folks.

Michigan should change their tourist slogan from “Find your true north” to “Find a good old days flashback”.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Deja Vu

The steel grey clouds overhead framed in the ominous storm below as I ran from my sister’s apartment through the freshly fallen snow.

Something overwhelmed my senses. Smell, sight, sound and temperature combined into a pattern that hadn’t experienced in years.

Déjà vu.

There in Technicolor Dolby Surround Sound and then gone in a flash of nothingness.

Places that I only remember in distant memories appear in front of my very eyes and then fade from my vision. Hazy memories dot the horizon but I can’t reach them. People that are long gone seem to be there but then are blown away by a strong gust of December wind.

The problem with Déjà vu is that you can’t place why you feel like this has happened before. You search your insides to find a clue but there is none. It always feels like to me that I ‘dreamt’ what is happening before my very eyes, like I have some sort of special talent or gift to see into the future when I fall asleep. But this one was different.

My Déjà vu was wasn’t Déjà vu at all, but a similar feeling inside. But instead of it being a mystery to me, I know exactly where it came from. It happened to me before in a completely different way; in a different place, time and circumstances.

We sat outside that night by a fire. I wondered why we weren’t inside, considering the weather. Wind pranced through blustery snow and white trees, darting the few remaining leaves from their bonds and emancipating them into flight. I stared at one leaf as it hung in the air for what felt like an eternity. My over-active imagination wondered if it was built by some squirrels, the Wright Brothers of the squirrel world.

He was drinking a beer. So was I sort of, the bottle was killing my hands from the cold so I put mine in the snow at my feet and didn’t really touch it. I was kind of upset that I was out there in the first place. Couldn’t we drink beer in the house by the portable space heater? I figured I would give it five minutes and then go in.

After three minutes, we started the conversation that saved my life.

What was exactly said, I’ll never be able now put into words. We just talked. About everything you possibly imagine. I wish that I would’ve taped the conversation because when it was done, it passed just as quickly as my déjà vu.

It was getting late. He stood up and smiled at me, his gray stubble smirk. He turned and walked away, his dark silhouette casting a shadow for a mile through the old cedar trees and the acrobatic flight paths of snow.

That moment; the wet smell in the air, the cold on my breath, the sound of the hollow wind were clearly the same. But moreover, something appeared just past my line of sight. There stood a ghost in the darkness, an apparition, a figment.

And with that, it was gone.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

My Rental Car got Keyed

I walked out to my rental car this morning to find that someone keyed it. Fuck me.

First off, who the fuck keys random cars? It wasn’t that I was parked poorly or did anything to deserve it. Shit, if it was one of my enemies, I could understand why they did it. But my enemies don’t know I have a rental car and that I haven’t been parking in my garage.

Second, what does keying someone’s car do for the person who does the keying? Does it make you feel big? Strong? Like you’ve accomplished something?

Third, don’t they realize that it’s fucking expensive to do such a thing to a rental car? It’s not like I can just live with the scrape, like I would do on my normal car. I have to turn it into the rental car company, who already told me I would have to pay the $500 deductible for the repairs. $500!??? For a scratch!?????

It sucks that I’ve had to have the rental car this long, for the repairs to my regular car have taken a fucking week already. I was supposed to turn this car in a long time ago, but they kept taking their sweet ass time. Now because I’ve had to keep the car, I waited one day to long to turn it back in.

Now, I have to try to return my rental car, pay a small fortune for a scratch, get my car and then race to the airport to make my flight to Michigan. I hope I don’t miss my flight.

I hate you car key scratcher person, whoever you are.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Top Ten Holiday gift ideas for people you don’t really want to spend money on.

It happens every year. You have someone, be it a relative or friend or coworker, who you have to buy a gift for whatever reason (mainly that they bought you one so you have to return the favor) even though you really don’t want to spend money on them. We’ve all been there. With our economy in a total shitcoffin, every penny you spend this Holiday counts.

That’s why I’m here with a list of cheap gifts to get these people who don’t want to buy a gift for.

10- Macaroni Art- You take macaroni and other assorted pastas and glue them onto a piece of paper or a paper towel roll and BOOM, instant art! You can put a special greeting of your liking or you could even do a self portrait. Talk about classy.

9- A Slinky- What walks down stairs, need no motor repairs and makes you look like a genius gift giver? A Slinky, that’s what!

8-A costume of yourself- Take clothes from your closet and put together a quintessential ‘you’ outfit. If you always wear plaid, put in a plaid shirt. If you were Birkenstocks, throw your old ones in a box. Give it to them and present it as a ‘you’ disguise.

7- Old Magazine Subscription- Take all the magazines that you saved from the last year. Deliver one to your person every week when the date on the old magazine states you should. Voila, instant old magazine subscription. (on second thought, this might take a lot of work. I’d say just give them all to them, tell them to sort out the dates)

6- Paper Mache Mask- Take strips of newspaper and glue them together into the form of a mask. Paint it with White out or whatever you got at the house. This is a great gift for someone who’s really really ugly.

5-A Candle- I was once told that you can always get someone a candle. Why? I’m not sure but fuck it, buy ‘em a candle, its cheap.

4-A picture frame with your picture- Get a good photo of yourself, maybe the one from Glamour Shots when you were 14, and frame that bitch up. And don’t waste money on an expensive frame, buy that shit from Goodwill.

3-Old Books- Take some books off the shelf at your house that you hate or never read and wrap them up. Easy, removes clutter from your house and you look intellectual.

2-Fast Food Condiments- Take all the catsup, mustard, BBQ and hot sauce packets from your fridge and junk drawer and arrange them in a basket. Make it look nice, like a cornucopia of condiments.

1-A Poem- Write a really abstract, silly poem and say that you wrote it for the person. Something about monkeys, sun beams, shoeshine and butterflies would work.

I hope that this helps you find a cheap gift. If it didn’t well, then you need to re-read the article again. I’m not writing another 10 gifts, I refuse!

Monday, December 10, 2007

Medical Marijuana

I did the unbelievable this weekend. I got a medical marijuana card. Yes, that card, the golden ticket for pot heads. My life just got a little bit better.

I’ve had bad back problems lately after my accident. It’s been tough because the pain medication makes me moody. That’s when this idea came into my head.

Why not get a license to smoke and eat weed for pain?

I assumed that this process would be tough and that I would be turned down afterwards. It was easier than I thought.

I went into this private ‘clinic’, which was nothing more than a couple of rooms in a small building. I filled out a quick form, answered some really easy questions from the doctor, who signed some papers and I was out the door.

That’s it, I had a one year permit to purchase weed at stores, possess it, and smoke it out. As I was walking down the street, laughing at my good luck, I look up and someone was encouraging me to go into a weed store (one of many in the West Hollywood area). It was like I was in Amsterdam, but it was one block away from my house.

Inside the weed store, it was exactly like Amsterdam, I could purchase any weed, type or flavor. Plus I could buy weed butter, food, candies, oils, plants, seeds etc. Plus, they have cheap weed, expensive weed, weed that will make you sleep, weed that makes you awake… anything you could imagine.

I purchased some bubblegum kush and some 9 times hash fudge. This stuff is 9 times as strong as your normal hash fudge. Man, that might have been an underestimate…

I ate this stuff, a tiny piece and smoked a blunt before trying to go to watch the Mayweather/ Hatton fight. It became apparent quite quickly that I wouldn’t be able to operate heavy machinery.

I was faced, everything was moving too slow, or was it too fast? Whichever it was, I was fucked up like I hadn’t been since I was in Amsterdam. I ‘over medicated’ as my new doctor had termed it.

It didn’t help that as I was over medicated that a crazy homeless person accosted us at McDonald’s, accusing Dayn of being Jesus. That a pretty heavy think to lay on someone who ate this fudge hash, especially to someone who can’t stop laughing. But after hearing this crazy person yell at us for 20 minutes, I was ready to escape. Thank God he left before I died of laughter. Man, I laughed like hadn’t laughed in months, maybe years.

The whole night was a blur of laughter, I don’t remember most of it or the fight for that matter.

After Saturday night, I felt still high when I woke up the next morning. I guess I was pretty dang high…

Thanks to my completely legal weed card, I can do that. Hopefully I don’t over medicate too often, I think I almost ate and smoked myself retarded.

Friday, December 7, 2007

Writer's block

I didn’t post a blog yesterday because I had writers block. Shit, its not even writers block but I like absolutely no idea what to right about.

You see I have my mind wrapped around two things right now, “The life of Hunter S. Thompson” book and my script “Terrence versus the Army of Robots.” Whenever I sit down to right, those are the only two topics that come to mind. That and Bob Dylan…

Here is a list of things that I thought about writing, but couldn’t figure out how to get more than four sentences about it.

-I Am Legend- I saw a preview of it today and it was… okay I guess. It wasn’t bad at all, in fact, it was good but different. I thought it would be more entertaining than it was, it was actually kind of depressing. If you’re looking for a movie to think about the end of the world and being alone, this is the one for you.

-Classic rock- I’ve been listening to a bunch of classic rock lately. What do I have to say about that? I’m not sure.

-Tag, my short movie- I’m really ready to be done with everything on this but I have to go back and do another edit with some different sound mix. I really don’t want to, because I’m just burned out of it but I have to.

-I’m going back to Michigan on Wednesday for my sister’s gradation. Should be fun. And very cold.

-My tattoo itches today.

-I’m going to watch the Mayweather/Hatton fight on Saturday. I hope Hatton kicks the shit out of him.

-I think I’m going to check out Juno this weekend, looks like it’s a good flick.

-The Lions play the Cowboys this weekend. Looks like another loss for the football club from Detroit.

All of those things aren’t really full blog worthy. Maybe after the weekend, I’ll have more to write about.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007


Just when my interest in sports was fading, my Tigers pull me back in.

My whole life has been filled with the Detroit Tigers. Shit just last week I got a big ass tattoo of the old English D Tigers logo. Some of my first memories were of going to Tigers Stadium to watch the World Series winning 1984 Tigers. After that, when the Tigers had Cecil Fielder, I would watch games on the couch with my dad every summer when I was visiting him in Michigan. Later when I was in college, I would go to the bar to watch the terrible Tigers who couldn’t win if they tried, and I’m pretty sure they didn’t try. But I still loved them, I would draft a terrible fantasy baseball team every year because I would draft a ton of Tigers.

Now, it’s like the Tigers are a fantasy team.

Thank God Mike Illitch gave the GM job to Dave Drombroski and the manager job to Jim Leyland. They changed the organization from a punchline for a dumb joke on Leno to a powerhouse.

Four years ago, the Tigers flat out sucked. Then suddenly, we were aggressive about signing players, Pudge Rodriguez decided to come here. Everything changed after that, including the players that the Tigers already had in their system. Young guys who lost 20 games in our record setting sucky season looked like studs. Maybe they wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Poof, Two years later when the Tigers made the World Series when no thought they would. Shit, I was a little shocked but totally happy and content with the change. They were respectable again, and in fact, they were good, if not great.

But this last year, they were hit with a ton of injuries and played like shit down the stretch. Maybe they would be a one hit wonder.

Now, the Tigers are the most active and down right ruthless team in the off season. Today’s announcement of the biggest trade in Tigers history makes this team just downright nasty…

I would be happy getting Dontrelle Willis, who had a crappy year last year but I think just needed a change of scenery. But to get one of the greatest young hitters out there in Miguel Cabrera is not fair. Its like we are catching up to the Yankees and Red Sox out there, playing with Monopoly money and making huge pick ups.

In order to get Dontrelle and Miguel, the Tigers did have to give up two of our best prospects. But what if those guys don’t pan out? We gave a hand full of unknowns for a young proven commodity who is getting in the best shape of his career and guy who is only two seasons removed from winning 22 games.

I like those chances.

Not to mention that the Tigers went out and got Edgar Renteria and Jacque Jones and resigned everybody that was worth resigning. As the article posted above notes, the Tigers have added 4 All Stars in 14 months with giving up a player that has spent a full season in the bigs.

Thank you Tigers. You made sports interesting to me again.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Ron and the Rain

Ron waited for the first drops of rain, patiently sitting by the cracked back window. Larry ‘Snowman’ Oklahoma, the weatherman on the channel seven news, said there was a 99 percent chance of precipitation. Ron knew what that meant. He paid close attention in his 2nd grade science class last year, studied the barometer, found out about weather patterns. 99 percent precipitation meant it was going to rain.

During his waiting, Ron thumbed through his favorite comic book, “The Terrible”. The Terrible was probably a little too mature and edgy for Ron to be reading, but he didn’t care. He was the first kid he knew that got into more ‘adult’ graphic novels and not regular comics, which he deemed, “for little kids.” He took a lot of pride in his fine taste for their explicit violence and near pornographic sex scenes. He would trace the half naked ladies with a thin piece of notebook paper and a number two pencil, always a number two, and he would pass them off as his own creations to the few classmates he actually spoke to. They thought he was an artist. He felt like a fraud, but that didn’t stop him from presenting all the kids his new piece every Monday morning on the playground by the monkey bars.

The Terrible smashed open the skull of yet another street punk just as a burst of disconcerting thunder sounded from the sky, creating a strange cacophony that startled Ron. During his waiting, he got so caught up in the Terrible’s adventures that he forgot the reason he was by the window in the first place.

A single drop of rain hit the window. Then another. The two drops raced down the windowpane and ran into each other, forming a large globule that hung for a moment and then eventually fell to the window sill.

Ron jumped up of his favorite worn down chair and ran to the back door. He was ready for the rain, the plastic and rubber of his galoshes and raincoat rubbed together, creating an annoying squeaking sound. He pushed up the sliding glass door and peered outside; it was now sprinkling all over the small wood deck and garden that his step mom kept in order.

The smell of fresh water, earth and wood permeated Ron’s senses. It was time.

Next to the back gate stood a generic BMX bike. It wasn’t a name brand like all the other kids on the block who had Dynos, Haros and Mongooses. Ron always openly spoke hatred to his bike. He told it and anyone who would listen how ‘stupid and plain’ it was; like the bike was a conscience entity that needed to be reminded of its blandness and that this mockery might institute a change. But as much as he hated it, he loved it as well. He spent every free moment of the past year on the bike. Not out of pure necessity either, it was more than a mode of transportation; it was his release, his conduit for adventure, his best friend.

Ron hopped on his bike and didn’t bother to shut the back gate; he had more important things to do. As he peddled away from his house, another crack of thunder snapped through the air. The rain drops took cue from the clap and doubled in intensity, up from a drizzle to what Ron would tell his friends is, “the Seattle Standard”. Ron hadn’t been to Seattle but he heard that it rained everyday there from his much older step sister, who went to Seattle for college. Every time when she would visit, she remark on the “the Seattle Standard” and how the rain was different there, better. She held an elitist attitude about rain and the quality and quantity of it in her new hometown, but Ron never understand why she felt that way. But he adopted the phrase, “the Seattle Standard” because it made it sound like he was well traveled. He came up with a plan in his head that if in the event a kid was to ask if he had been to Seattle, he would lie and say he spent the weekend. However, no one asked him so he never had to lie.

Sploosh! Ron’s dull silver bike landed in a puddle at the base of the first jump on his run. Ron had spent the better part of the last summer building a few dirt ramps in the vacant dirt field next to his house. His multiple bike runs through this field during his short tenure in the neighborhood smothered the plant life, mostly weeds and tall wheat like grass, into a muddy faux bike track.

During the second month of summer break, the other kids noticed the track and started riding it themselves. Eventually, they took inspiration from Ron’s heavy shoveling and built upon the track, leading different paths to parts of the neighborhood; to other kids backyards, to the elementary school, to the Foodco. Shopping center.

The other kids also built their own ramps, but all of them paled in comparision to Ron’s ‘Evil Knievel’ ramps. Ron’s father showed him a video of Evil Knievel the year before, told him how exciting his jump over the Snake River was to him when he was a Ron’s age. Ron paid close attention to the set up and execution of his jumps; how his ramps arched and his landing area was clear and straight.

This has a profound affect on Ron and his plans for the summer. Ron had always rode his bike through town and around the field, but now he was motivated to build ramps inspired by the design of Mr. Knievel. Ron made sure to analyze the angle of the jump and the drop off to the landing area. Additionally, he made sure that he had enough peddling space before the jump to get to full speed to take the jump, maximizing the vault.

While many kids made their jumps capable of being rode from either side of the path, back or forth, with a little jump occurring in middle of the run, Ron’s jumps were one way roads with a large drop. Other kids would complain that it limited the track to a certain direction that it had to be rode, but Ron didn’t care. He would tell them, “I want big jumps, not some kindergarten crap.”

One day in August; three kids tried to adjust Ron’s fifth ramp, his favorite one and the largest on the track. The ramp rested in between an outcropping of oak trees and dying bushes, making it the most scenic part of the almost completely barren lot. He scrutinized the details of this particular ramp. He wanted the incline to match the precise grade, curvature and take off point of the ramp at Snake River; only in a smaller scale. After spending 10 hours every day shoveling dirt for three straight weeks, it was complete. He stepped back from it and beheld his triumph of his work. It was his masterpiece. But like every masterpiece, it came at a price. The cost of his work was his hand’s health, which still bare the calusses of the shovel handle rubbing splinters into his fingers to this day.

He wasn’t about to let his hard work go to waste. Luckily Ron saw what the kids were fixing to do from the second floor his step mom’s townhouse. He grabbed his bike, came at them with a full head of steam and jumped the ramp higher than he ever had before, just barely clearing the back of Paulie Winston as he kneeled down to dig. Ron came to a stop and the kids exchanged a look. No words needed to be said, the other kids knew exactly how Ron felt. They knew that they were wronging him. The embarrassed kids picked up their shovels and moved 20 yards away to build a tiny hill to expand their growing ‘kindergarten crap’ track.

The rain took a turn for the worse, or for the better, depending on your opinion of rain. Either way, a deluge of water pounded Ron and his trusty best friend/worst enemy as he rounded a corner and accelerated into his fifth jump. He was determined to jump higher and longer than that fateful day in August, if the weather would allow it. He jammed on the pedals and rocked the bike back and forth, his body weight shifting with each push down of his legs. The rain pelted his eyes as the wind blew the drops ‘slightly side like’, just like William Wallace described in Ron’s favorite movie, ‘Braveheart’.

As Ron peddled, he wondered if this was going to be the last time he would have the chance to enjoy this ramp. He was almost sure that it would be. Tomorrow he would be boarding a plane to move Georgia to live with his mom, his real mom. His family knew that it was best for him to have a more settled down living arrangement, whatever that meant. Ron was sick of everyone making decisions for him, he just wanted to stay right where he was and do whatever he wanted to do.

With these thoughts ever salient, he came to the muddy foundation of his master work- the fifth jump. His legs shook, partly from the cold, partly from his intense movement, part from something else that he wasn’t quite sure of. His back tire tore a hole in the mud, shooting a blast of sludge onto the leg of his best pair of jeans as well as the base of the gears. As he reached the precipice of the jump, the rusty chain on Ron’s worst enemy popped off the gear, as if some sort of payback for the years of being told it wasn’t good enough. Ron gave one last thrust down on his pedal… and immediately panicked.

Ron’s momentum propelled him off the ramp as he tried to gain a solid footing on the bike, to no avail. His right foot slipped off the pedal. The bike lifted up into his crotch and solar plexus as he flew off course, to the right of the path, into the largest oak tree in the bunch where Ron had once built a tree fort.

Boom! Ron and his bicycle slammed hard against the base of the tree. The impact knocked all the rain off of the tree branches above him, sending an avalanche of water down upon his body.

As the water hit him, it became apparent that something hurt; a lot. Ron took stock of himself, examining his body. There was no blood but something was different than his normal falls from his bike.

He touched his right leg and immediately pulled his hand back. “It has to be broken,” he thought. “If not broken, at least really badly screwed up.”

Ron laid on ground, staring at his masterpiece and then back his worst enemy, which was now bent out of shape; the handle bars were turned the wrong way and his left peddle was broken clean off.

Ron looked into the sky. The rain fell directly down onto his face; until you couldn’t decipher where the rain ended and the tears began.

Monday, December 3, 2007

Rebel Yell

I’ve had this feeling lately that I need to do something but I wasn’t sure what it is. It’s this burning sensation, and no it’s not an STD.

I need to rebel. And not rebel like getting a big ass tattoo like I did on Saturday night either.

I’m so sick of doing what I’m told. I’m sick of doing what’s expected of me. I’m sick of the responsibilities. I’m sick of society. I’m sick of my generation. I’m sick of the next generation of kids. I’m sick of America.

Everywhere I look, I see people who are completely brainwashed. What are they brainwashed by, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the media. Maybe it’s by their parent’s views. Maybe it’s by their own expectations of what people think they should be doing. Or maybe its what they think people think they should be doing. But whatever it is, they’re brainwashed just the same.

I feel like Holden Caulfield, surrounded by phonies. Hypocrites. Superficial narcissistic assholes. And just like Mr. Caulfield, I’m one of the phonies.

I’m exactly how people think I should be. I work a job, a REAL job, not some job to give me money so that I can work on my art, no no, I need a job where I dress nice and get a leg up. I feel like I need to settle down, I’m getting older so its time I get married and have kids. I shouldn’t dress this way or that, you’re nearly 30, 30 year old’s wear slacks and dress shirts all the time.

I should compromise my artistic voice to please the masses. I should make something not because it’s the story I want to tell, but because it’s going to make money. I should sell out.

Well, fuck that. I’m done.

Everything I used to like, I’m turned off by now. I used to love Hip Hop and electronic music, now I think its stupid. I loved scratching turntables and playing drum machines, now I don’t even want to be seen with that. I loved jeans, hoodies, ball caps, Nike Dunks. Now, I wish I could trade in all of it for a new wardrobe of all black 60’s mod clothes. I used to like video games, now I wish that I never wasted my time playing them. I used to love following sports, now I feel like its sucked my productivity into the toilet. I used to love the internet, now I wish it was never invented.

I want to go back to when things were simpler.

I’ve spent a lot of time reading and researching the 1960’s and 1970’s lately, and I wish I was born 30 years earlier. Back then, art was about art, not about commerce. I could be an experimental film maker and live comfortable in a big city. Now, if I wanted to do that, I would have to take a side job robbing people to be able to make movies.

But its more than that, the people of that age didn’t give a shit about status, money, their audience’s opinion, making it big, selling yourself etc.

It was just about living and being yourself. Some where, some time, some how, that got lost.

I want to find it again.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Going back to the future

Weed is a hell of a drug. It will make you laugh, make you eat food, make you forget what you said five seconds before. It will also make you think you can go back to the future.

In college, Bradford, Kyle, Fudgeshop and I were driving to go see a movie at the local mall. Of course, we were super stoned at the time, more so than usual I suppose. Kyle remarked how the mall parking lot looking similar to the Hill Valley mall parking lot where Marty went to the past in Back to the Future.

I looked over to the driver Bradford. He had this crazed look in his eyes. He smiled this wicked smile, something you would see a cartoon villain do before he turned on a device to end the world. He

Then Bradford did the unthinkable. He put the peddle to the metal.

“What the hell are you doing?!” I asked Bradford.

“We got to get this thing up to 88 if we’re going to go back to the future,” Bradford said matter of factly.

“You’re what? Stop fucking around, we got to get to the movie…”

But Bradford wouldn’t listen, he was a man possessed. He had the need, the need for speed.

20 miles an hour. 30. 40. 50. I looked at the guys in the back seat, they were holding their seat belts for dear life with white knuckled hands. The grim look on their faces screamed apprehension.

We were going break some sort of record for largest speeding ticket in a parking lot. 60. 70. 80.

We had already done a lap of the entire mall at this point, flying past parked cars. But when we did finally did reach 88, we didn’t leave burned tire marks and shoot back to 1955. We came to a complete stop.

Bradford turned to me and smiled. I looked in the back seat, the guys were practically holding each other with fear. Then someone laughed, then another one, then we all fell into uproarious laughter.

To this day whenever I see that mall or Marty McFly, I think of that night when we almost went back to the future.

God bless Bradford, Back to the Future and most of all WEED.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Bob Dylan

“Now all the authorities
They just stand around and boast
How they blackmailed the sergeant at arms
Into leaving his post
And picking up angel who
Just arrived here from the coast
Who looked so fine at first
But left looking just like a ghost…”

Bob Dylan played by his own rules. He said to hell with the authorities and popular opinion, “I’d had it with the whole scene.”

I always appreciated Dylan’s music, although I did think his early work got a little monotonous. But after watching Martin Scorsese’s documentary ‘No Direction Home’, Dylan; the man, the myth and the legend inspired me.

‘No Direction Home’ is a very rich look at the life and times of Bob Dylan leading up to his motorcycle accident and focusing on the change of his folk music into his Highway 61 Revisited and when he went ‘Electric’. Throughout Scorsese’s documentary it is apparent that Marty wanted to focus on certain sections of Dylan’s life and the scene and skip other topics. That’s fine, even though it was a little manipulative. But what truly shines through is Dylan’s attitude and his way of doing things.

Whatever the man wanted and wanted to do, he did it.

When Bob was starting out, he wanted to be a better guitar player, listen to every folk record, and move to New York to play. Soon, he was in Greenwich Village, playing everyday in front of audiences and stealing records from friends and associates.

Dylan wanted to record and have a record out. Boom, he became a self promoter, went and told people about himself, hung out with promoters, tried his damnest to get there.

He was sick of the folk music scene and wanted to change styles. He went electric and half of his audience hated him for it. But eventually, he made his audience follow what he thought was cool, and not the other way around.

Man, it hit me in the face like a two by four. Whatever the man wanted and wanted to do, he did it.

I need to be more Dylan like. Stop worrying about people saying no. Stop worrying about people not liking what I do. Be happy with my work, my art and if someone doesn’t like it, fuck ‘em, “play it fucking loud.”

Thank you Bob Dylan.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Chef Mike's fart

As we waited to my new born nephew, Chef Mike had to fart. Really bad. My family, my girlfriend and I were standing in the hallway when Mike excused himself, walked into the other room and released the biggest fart I’ve ever been a part of.

I’ve been known for my own flatulence, its smell and the volume of my farts. But my toots paled in comparison to this monster fart.

Within seconds, the entire first floor of the hospital smelled like a sulfur mine mixed with a million dead rats.

I ran away from the smell and its source to no avail, it moved faster than my legs could carry me. I was on the phone at the time and my sister swore that she smelt something through the cell phone.

Its one in a million, the widowmaker, Mike’s ultimate fart. I commend you on your achievement Chef Mike. Amazing.

Monday, November 26, 2007

New Life

Wow, what a Thanksgiving. Turkey was great, Chef Mike made crazy mashed potatoes with his culinary skills and the Lions lost yet again. But all of that paled in comparison to the surprise of the holiday weekend- the birth of my nephew, Cian Thomas Smith.

I woke up at 8:30 AM on Saturday morning to my mom telling Chef Mike that my brother’s wife went to the hospital at 2 AM, she was going to have the baby soon. We all hurried to get ready so we could be there for the birthing. We hurried up to wait apparently…

I always pictured the whole birthing process to be like you see it in the movies. You rush to the hospital and the heavily-breathing mother gets pushed into the operating room on a gurney, with the family running behind her. The door shuts in the face of the family who then paces back and forth for a few minutes before a nurse comes out and says it’s a boy or a girl. Then the family walks to a window where 50 babies sit in a room behind a glass window. The family points the new addition to the family, cry, fawn and hug. Then the proud poppa comes out and gives everyone cigars.

Nope, that’s not how it works at all. The quick urgent feeling in the movies couldn’t be further from the truth.

My mom, dad, girlfriend, Chef Mike and I got there and went to the room where my brother and his wife were getting ready. My brother walked out of the door and closed it behind him, told us to sit tight and that the baby would be here in 30 minutes. Yeah right.

We waited in the waiting room (cause that’s what you do in a waiting room is wait). You sit inside a glass window much like these babies in movies do, people walking by and looking in on your like you’re a caged animal. You kind of are really, until the moment the baby comes and you can get out. Its like the penalty box.

Hour one rolled by. Hour two. We all went for a walk. I bought a pack of cards and we played war. Hour three went by. Hour Four. Then a text from my brother, should be any second. Hour five. Hour six. Then another text that just said ‘C Section’. We all went to eat, cause that’s what you do after sitting for 6 hours and you’ve watched Sex and the City for hours, you need food. Then we came back to the waiting room, no news. “Man, where was this kid?! I’ll go in there myself with some salad tongs and pull that kid out if they need me to…”

Suddenly, after hours of waiting and during our 50th game of War; I got a text message that said, “IT’S A BOY. Cian Thomas Smith. Pronounced kee un.”

The entire room slowed down, like a bullet time scene in the Matrix. Its unbelievable to me the feeling that you get when a new family member appears out of what appears thin air, after months of anticipation and hours of waiting. We all hugged each other, my step dad, my mom and I sharing a special moment with my girlfriend and Chef Mike. My step dad was so touched when he heard that his name would be the baby’s middle name that he cried.

Immediately, I sent out a million text messages and phone calls to everyone that knew, my sisters, my other nephew. My stepdad let himself out to have a private moment with his mom, a first time great grandmother. Through the window, I saw tears stream from his eyes.

Finally we would get to see this kid! I figured we would all stand outside a window and get to see my new nephew like in the movies, I guess that doesn’t happen either.

We would take turns going to see mommy and the new baby in a recovery room instead. My mom went first, then my step dad then me. As my brother and I walked through the hallway to see Cian, I felt so proud of my brother. He was once this little turd who couldn’t stop getting in trouble and now he’s a father.

I thought about what our Dad must be thinking in heaven or hell or pregatory or wherever he is. He always told me that I raised Sean, because my mother was always working and he was gone out of our life. That meant I was the only one to take care of him, tell him right from wrong. Hell, when my bro got thrown out of the house for being a degenerate, he lived with me when I was in college. I always tried to steer him clear of trouble, but I probably wasn’t very good at it. It wasn’t until he met his wife that he finally got his stuff together. And now look at him…

Its weird to think that my brother who is three years younger than me, who I practically raised, who was the biggest fuck up growing up; is already married, has a kid and is making roughly 4 times what I make out here in Hollywood.

He’s all grown up. I’m still not there yet. Its like I’m the little brother now.

I know my step dad lets me know it enough. Every time I visit him, he hits me with snide remarks and comments about how I’m not living up to his standard. It fucking hurts. Its not like I’m not trying. I’d love to have all the things that my brother does; money, family, nice clothes and a house but I can’t right now. I’m trying like hell to get further along, to have a high paying job in Hollywood, to make something of myself. I don’t need the pressure from him, my own guilt is pressure enough.

But all of that melted away the minute I saw Cian Thomas, the cutest baby in the world. He melted my heart. I’m a proud uncle for the second time, this being the first time I was there for the actual pregnancy and birthing. Man it feels good.

As you can see, he’s a big kid already. It took his mommy like 16 hours to try to pop him out, only to finally get a C section. Man, that must of hurt…

Honestly, today feels weird because of Cian, but in a good way. Its like everything that I have on plate seems a little less important. All of these problems that I was having, all the worries about money, career, status and everything aren’t nearly as important as that 8 lbs. 4 oz, 21 and a half inch little boy that lives in Phoenix. He has his whole life ahead of him and two loving parents that care about him so much, and two grandparents… and one uncle…

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Happy Thanksgiving

In 24 or so hours, I will be eating mashes potatoes and gravy. Thank God for that. What other things am I thankful for on this festive holiday? Glad you asked.

-My parents for consistently supporting me in my quest to make it in Hollywood.

-My short movie Tag is finally done after months of being in post. A weight of a thousand Britney Spearses has been lifted off my chest. Also, that I was able to get it done in time to apply for the Phoenix Film Festival. I hope it gets in.

-I will have another niece or nephew coming soon, maybe on Thanksgiving day.

-Tejava iced tea.

-Oscar season is coming up so good movies are coming out now. The list of movies that I want to watch is longer than the list of people I owe money to.

-Radiohead’s In Rainbows box set gets shipped soon.

-I have a fast metabolism that has slowed down only enough for me to have a little pot belly.

-America’s economy is doing so well, gas prices are low and the stock market is up. Oh wait, that was 1997, not 2007. My bad.

-I have a girlfriend who understands that I’m crazy and in fact loves it.

-Netflix. What a great invention. Now, I have to watch movies faster than the mail.

-My beautiful dog Parker and the little things that she does that make me laugh.

-The weather, thank God its not 100 still. Fucking global warming.

-My sister graduating college and potentially moving to LA.

-Fantasy Football, I’m number one in both of my leagues (by typing this I have just jinxed myself for sure)

-I’d say thanks for the Detroit Lions and Phoenix Suns if they both didn’t consistently let me down.

-My friends who help me out with my hair brained schemes and plans.

-Happy Ending Bar that opened up next to my house and has the NFL package on Sundays. Thanks for taking my money and making everything so fucking expensive. Also thanks for making the best Kobe burger on the planet.

-The WGA for completely fucking up my chances of selling a script in the near future. Greedy bastards.

-Reefer for making my back not hurt so much. Also Dr. Mike Yanigita for the chiropractor work.

-Rolling Stone magazine for being a source of continued coolness.

-BBQ chicken sandwiches.

-Music for making me forget my problems.

-I’m not dead.

There’s probably some others but I don’t feel like typing anymore. Happy Thanksgiving people!

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Del Taco versus Taco Bell

I’ve had too many arguments about the merits of Del Taco lately. A large number of my friends refuse to try Del Taco for some fucking reason. They say that they prefer Taco Bell and won’t even take the taco taste test.

Well, frankly, I’m sick of it. Del Taco deserves its place in the fast food pantheon. It’s not that I don’t like Taco Bell, I do. But Del Taco has a few items that are much better than Taco Bell. In fact, I think Del Taco is better overall than Taco Bell.

Here’s the tale of the tape, a head to head comparison of the two restaurants from someone who loves Mexican Food more than sex.

Overall food quality-

Del Taco has Taco Bell beat pretty bad. The beans at Del Taco are made fresh everyday, while Taco Bell’s are freeze dried. The cheese at Del Taco is fresh and tasty, the cheese at Taco Bell is okay at best. The tortillas at Taco Bell are generic, Del Taco has fresh tasting ones. The beef at both places are bad, but Del Taco’s has a tiny bit better taste.

Del Taco wins in a landslide.

Menu Selection-

I have to admit, Taco Bell has quite a few selections. But every single one of them is a variation on another item. Add a gordita shell to one taco, boom, you’ve got a double decker taco. Wrap a burrito around a tostada, you got a crunchwrap supreme. Is this method really creating a new food? I’m not sure. But damn if it isn’t tasty.

Del Taco on the other hand has the standard items but also has two things that Taco Bell doesn’t, Hamburgers and French fries. Most people wouldn’t go to a Del Taco for the burgers, but they are tasty. And the French fries, man they are good. They have the right level of salt and when you get them with chili and cheese, they are out of this world.

I’m going to call this one a draw, its hard to chose the burgers and fries option over the crunchwrap supreme.

Hot Sauce-

Taco Bell has a couple of options; mild, hot, and fire. All of these sauces aren’t good but they seem to taste good on Taco Bell food. Also, the hot and fire are not as labeled, they’re mild at best.

Del Taco has two sauces; mild and Del Scorcho. The mild sauce is gross, a total waste of time in my opinion. The Del scorcho is amazing, not really hot but hot enough and tastes like actual Mexican people made it.

Advantage Del Taco.

So basically, Del Taco wins in a landslide. Take that Taco Bell!

Anybody who argues with me from now on about this one, I’m sending them this blog.

Monday, November 19, 2007

Ode to my girlfriend

Guys don’t like to talk about how much they love their girlfriends to other guys. It’s like showing how pussy whipped you are. Well, I’m about to change that.

I have the best girlfriend ever. There are a hundred million reasons why I love her. First and foremost, she puts up with my ass, which makes her stronger than Hercules.

The other reasons… why don’t I break them down into a top ten list? Everyone loves top ten lists, just ask Dave Letterman’s mom. Here they are, in no particular order.

10- Patience- Mentioned in the opening, she’s like the Mother Theresa of my world. I’m such a pain in the ass all the time, and she takes everything in stride. When I’m pissed off that I’m stuck in traffic, she calms me down.

9- Smarts- She’s the smartest woman that I know. She’s doing great in school, just about to graduate. She had this test that she had to study for that was unreal; she had to basically memorize a bunch of extremely tough passages, who wrote them and what impact they had. I worked with her on them and I was convinced it was impossible to know this crap. She got an A on her test. Plus she’s street smart. Not many girls I know have street smarts unfortunately.

8- Beautiful- Everything about her is beautiful. I love her green eyes, the way they rest in on her face. I love her cheek bones. I love her little nose. I love her chin. I love her ears… I could go on and on…

7- Willing to try new things- She’s always getting into things that I like; football, fantasy sports, movies, music, djaying etc. She’s adventurous and will jump at the chance to do something out of the ordinary.

6- Fun loving- She’s always laughing, smiling and pleased with the world. She makes even the most mundane tasks fun and enjoyable. Her attitude is infectious, she makes you want to smile back at her.

5- Caring- She truly cares about me. She almost motherly in a way, when I hurt, she hurts. She’s worried about me when I’m down. But besides my own needs; she cares society, the helpless people and the planet as a whole.

4- Strong- My girl could beat up your girl. She’s tough. She won’t back down from a fight. Plus, she’s mentally tough, things don’t bother her much. She’s also strong muscle wise for a girl.

3- Stubborn- She’s stubborn in a good way. When she has her mind set on something, there’s nothing that can get in her way. She’s committed to her values and ideals. Plus, if she wants me to do something, I have to do it or I’ll never hear the end of it, but in a good way.

2- Leader- She’s the leader of the pack. At her old job, she was the boss. In her friends, everyone waits for her to do something or set something up because she’s expected to. In every other situation, people flock to her for guidance because she has a cool head and knows how to delegate authority.

1-Big heart- She’s a bleeding heart. She reaches out to the sick and lonely. She cares about homeless people (which I don’t have the capacity to do). She cares about me (I’m like sick lonely and homeless all at the same time.)

These are just ten of the billions of things about my girl that make her the most special lady I’ve met. Does that make me p whipped? Yes, but I don’t care. I love her that much.

Thursday, November 15, 2007


Man, I miss Europe. I went to Europe after I graduated from ASU in 2001 (man, was it that long ago?) and fell in love with it. I always told myself I would go back but I haven’t yet. Who knows, after I get laid off because of the strikes, maybe I could move there and make movies in France.

I had many favorites places in Europe, Amsterdam being in the top two. Why Amsterdam? Why not?

I always pictured Amsterdam as this seedy place where it was perpetually night, shady characters dart into alleys and you would be scared for your life at all times. I couldn't be more wrong. It's clean, nice and I never felt in trouble.

Amsterdam has it all; art, culture, nice people, good food, beautiful canals, dutch flowers, drugs and legal prostitution; everything a growing boy needs to survive.

I didn’t partake in the prostitution when I was there but I do have an awesome story from someone who did.

One night I decided to hit the town on my own, without my two best friends who I was traveling with. Once out, I enjoyed many Heinekens and lots of Dutch weed. It was great, I highly recommend it. At one of the ‘coffee’ shops, I ran into a guy from Cuba. We hit it off right away, talking about a million things. He proceeded to get me more and more wasted. In an hour, I was faced. We were laughing hard when he told me that he had something to show me.

We walked to the Red Light District. In the windows of the multiple hundreds of years old homes were hookers hanging out. When they got a customer, they will close the curtains and get busy.

We found the building that Juan was looking for. He pointed out a brunette, the hottest in the building.

“What do you think of that one dere?” Juan asked in his funny accent.

“She’s hot,” I started to get a weird feeling. Why did Juan bring me here? Was he like some sort of recruiter for hookers. I wasn’t about to fuck a hooker, no matter how hot she was.

Juan cleared his throat. “She is a man,” he said matter of factly with his Cuban accent.

Wow. I mean wow. What does one say after this?

I asked him, “How do you know that?”

“I don’t vant to talk about it,” Juan replied.

No talk needed, I understood right away.

That’s why Europe is awesome, stuff like that doesn’t happen in the good ol’ USA.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Making Fun of Death

I make fun of death. A lot. Tell jokes about it. Make fun of people who died. Shit, I’m part of a band that makes fun of dying. Or at least I think I still am.

Sarah’s Mom really hates our band. She wants Sarah to stop making our music. I understand why. Our lyrics are… ummm, how do I say this… over the top. But that’s the point really. Shock value for laughs. We’re not seriously going to chop off someone’s head, or stalk them and put on their underwear.

When Sarah told me her mom felt that she should stop singing these parodies and funny songs, I was hurt at first. Didn’t she understand that we weren’t serious? Didn’t she see the humor in making fun of the tragedy of death and killing?

Sarah’s mom said that she now knows what Alice Cooper’s mother must have felt like. Isn’t that a great example of why our making fun of death should work? Alice is a huge Christian, helps the community, loves puppies, kids and bunnies. If he can sing about all the same crazy shit as us, is it any different? You can sing about death and still be a good person.

And while Alice’s music is very aggressive, ours is fun and dare I say… pop music.

Our music is the same as acting really. Did Robert Englund go on a killing spree with knife hands after doing “The Nightmare on Elm Street”? Did Kevin Spacey become a serial killer after he did Seven? Did Al Pacino want to shoot people with a M16 after he did Scarface? NO, NO and NO.

Maybe she’s right though. Maybe we should stop it before it begins. After all, death is a serious subject, especially if you’ve just lost a loved one. I can understand the pain. I don’t think that’s the reason why she hates it thought. More so, I think her mom and people in general are afraid of dying and talking about death in general. It’s easier to bury your head in the sand.

Am I afraid of dying? Yes, but only a little. To quote RZA from the Gravediggers album, “There’s no need to cry, because we all die.” The way I look at it, I’m going to die some day, maybe tomorrow, maybe in 70 years. But it will happen.

Does dying suck? Yes, it does. But it’s the only constant in our world, the great equalizer. Every one of us will die, whether we like it or not.

So should we be afraid of death, dying and killing or should we embrace the fact that it’s going to happen? I think only when you do realize that death is part of life, that you can live your life to the fullest. I know I have.

But is it insensitive to make fun of killing and death? Maybe… but I think the best way to cope with any problems is to be able to make fun of it. I don’t know if that’s a poor defense mechanism for coping, nor do I care. All I know is that it helps me and that’s all that matters.

I’m going to keep making fun of death and killing, even if I don’t have a musical avenue to express it.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Foot in Mouth

Be careful what you say and how you say it, it might bite you in the butt.

Many years ago my brother, Jason, Brad and myself were playing the video game Bond 007 for the Nintendo 64. If you’re not familiar with the game, you run around shooting each other, dressed like James Bond or characters from the movie.

During the game, someone kept running around in circles, not really shooting anything but acting like a spaz. I find it funny when people do this because serious gamers get all pissed because they take the game so seriously and when others don’t, they get mad.

Such was the case with Brad. He yells out, “who’s running around like a monkey?”

Bad choice of words on two levels; first, it was Jason who was running around and second, Jason is African American.

Not only is Jason African American but he one of those guys who gets very easily offended by any racism, even if it was by accident. It wasn’t that Brad was being racist, he was saying it because he meant it in a completely different way.

You could cut the tension in the room with a chainsaw. I looked at Jason, who was fighting mad. Brad looked like he just accidentally killed someone’s cat.

Then the real fun began. Brad tried to get himself out of what he said.

“Not that black people are monkeys. Or that monkeys look like black people. Or that black people and monkeys are in any way related…”

Talk about digging yourself into a hole. I had to step in and make sure that Jason understood that Brad didn’t mean what he said. Eventually, Jason was cool and understood it was just a mistake. We actually laughed about it afterwards.

But it just proves the old axiom, ‘Think before you speak…”

Monday, November 12, 2007

Homeless Comedy Relief

You gotta love LA, its one of the only places where you can’t walk down the street without running into 15 homeless people. As you might have read before, I don’t exactly like homeless folks. They smell, they panhandle you to death, get mad if you don’t give them money, they talk to themselves etc. But sometimes, they provide much needed comic relief.

On Sunday afternoon, my buddy Steve was walking over to the bar to watch football with me. On the way, he ran into a really cute kid being pushed in a stroller by her dad.

In front of them, a homeless man stepped out from between two parked cares. He then pulled down his pants, exposing his bare ass to them.

Steve tried hard to hold in his laughter, but couldn’t. He had no idea that it was about to get more comical.

The homeless guy squatted down.

“Oh no,” Steve thought. “He’s not going to… yep he is!”

The homeless guy pooed right on the concrete sidewalk where Steve, the father and his daughter were walking.

Steve ran past the pooing guy. He tried not to get hit by the butt spray.

The poor father tried to do the same. Bad Idea. The concrete was uneven because tree roots had broken the sidewalk up. The stroller wheels hit a crack and the force of the father’s pushing forced his daughter to teeter precariously on the edge of falling into a poop stream!

She fell out of the stroller… directly towards the shit missle…

The father grabbed his daughter right before her head hit the chocolate soft serve that was coming out of the homeless butt. CLOSE CALL!

Homeless people. Pooping on sidewalks for comedy relief for thousands of years.

(Props to Steve for the asssome story. Get it? Asssome? It's like awesome but... nevermind.)

Friday, November 9, 2007


My back is fucking killing me. Man, it hurts constantly. I can’t stop the pain, no matter how many painkillers and muscle relaxers I take, or bourbon that I drink.

I was in a car accident last Friday and that is the cause of my terrible pain. I was on the freeway when every car came to a complete stop in front of me. I stopped the car and look in my rear view, there is another car barreling down on me, with no hopes of stopping in time.

CRACK! The impact sound was startling, I thought we were all going to be seriously hurt. Turns out God was on our side and there were no major injuries and my car is barely screwed up. Thanks Toyota for making such a strong car.

The only problem is that in the process of the accident, I fucked my back up bad. Mind you, the pain is terrible, but I’ve felt worse, on several occasions.

When I was 15 I broke my wrist. I was playing basketball with some guys that I hung out with. I decided that we should take running starts from the other side of the court, jump onto a table and then dunk a basketball. Sounded like a great idea at the time. When I dunked, my legs had so much forward momentum that they swung from underneath me. I dropped basically from ten feet up directly onto my wrist.

OUCH. And I mean O U C H.

I went home and my step dad told me my wrist is just sprained and to not worry about it. How was I supposed to not worry about the bone sticking up the wrong way or the fact that I couldn’t see straight because I was in such pain? I wanted to go to the hospital. My step dad wouldn’t have any part of it. Unfortunately, the voice of reason, my mom, was out of town on business but she would be back early in the morning.

That night I tossed and turned in bed, the pain of my broken wrist taking over my entire body. When my mom came home the next morning, I was awake on the couch, holding ice to my broken bone. My mom saw the damage and immediately took me to the doctor, where I found out that my suspicions were right all along, my wrist was broken.

That pain was pretty bad, so was getting a beer bottle broken over my face.

In college, I had a friend named Kelly. One night when I came home to the dorms, she was hanging out with some meat head guys. She left those guys to come and hang out with me and my friend Aaron. These guys thought I must be cock blocking them, when that couldn’t have been further from the truth. They walked behind Kelly, Aaron and I, saying little remarks under their breath. I was starting to get pissed but I was going to let it slide until we got to my dorm door. The guys ducked into an elevator and yelled out a bunch of insults to me and my friend Aaron.

Now, a smart level-headed person would have just walked away. At the time, I wasn’t one of those people.

I opened my front door and grabbed a baseball bat. I needed an advantage.
There were three of them, and one of me, possibly two is Aaron followed me.

I ran down the stairs like the Flash and got to the bottom floor just as these meatheads were walking away. I told them to say that shit to my face. BIG MISTAKE.

As I said this, Aaron came running down the stairs, his two packs of cigs a day habit made it hard for him to keep up. I turn back around to engage the bullies when I was hit with the hardest punch of my life. It immediately blinded me, sending blood into my eyes.

I struggled as one guy grabbed me and tried to take the bat out of my hands. Blind, I tried to swing, but I couldn’t hit him.

He finally preyed the bat away from me. As I laid on the ground, I could picture him with some sort of sixth sense, pulling the bat up to swing down on me. But he hesitated and ran away. Thank God he did, I could have died with a couple of bat hits to the head.

By the time it was over, I still couldn’t see anything.

The cops showed up and asked us what had happened. We told them everything. Aaron said that I had gotten hit in the head with a full beer bottle. I was like, “I did?”

Apparently the phantom hardest punch of my life was actually a beer bottle being thrown from five feet away, directly to my head. As I turned back around, I caught the bottle right between the eyes. I was very lucky, if I turned a micro second later or early, I would be missing an eye or worse, could have died.

The next couple of weeks, my face was so bad that I couldn’t even leave bed. The pain and swelling were too much to bare.

On second thought, maybe this back pain isn’t so bad after all…

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Top Ten Party Ideas

Are you sick of parties with no theme? No, you’re not? Well you suck then.

I want to go to parties where every small detail has been planned out. I want to bask in the white hot glow of nerdy people going way too far with an idea. I want to be forced into silly games that I don’t want to play but are necessary for the integrity of the theme. I want to be mocked if I don’t wear a costume to a party.

Without further ado, here are my Top Ten Theme Party Ideas-

10- Bacon Party- This one is simple. Gets tons, and I mean tons, of bacon. Cook it up. Get that great bacon smell out there. Create bacon sandwiches, bacon smoothies, bacon martinis. Now, here’s the tough part. You need to create as many bacon looking things as possible. Take pink and red t-shirts and bleach white stripes on them. Dress you entire apartment with bacon related items. Hang fake bacon streamers. Voila! A bacon party! Everyone loves bacon, unless you’re a vag… I mean vegatarian. And even then, they like to smell bacon. Don’t they?

9- Under the Sea- The classic theme, as illustrated by the dance in Back to the Future. Get a bunch of tacky sea related items; shells, fish, mermaids etc. Throw them through out your place. Buy a couple of fish tanks. Put out sushi. Get a large punch bowl and fill it with blue carcoa, vodka, rum, tequila, 151, bourban and the blue toilet bowl flushy things. Yummmmm, sea punch!

8-Naked party- Tell all your friends to show up naked. If them come with clothes, strip them off. Take all of the items out of your main party space, make it naked too. Give everyone punch (see above sea punch recipe) mixed with ecstasy. Pump in some raver music and BOOM, naked party is taking off! Just make sure to invite fit people. No one likes to see fat naked people dance, unless they’re really high. Then it’s just funny.

7-Cell Phone Exchange Party- When someone walks in the door, they check in their cell phone and are given someone else’s phone. You have free reign on their cell phone, call whoever you want from their phone book. But by the end of the night, you have to get your cell phone back by talking to people and figuring who has your phone. Also, you could call yourself and listen for your ring tone. On second thought, this might be a dumb party idea.

6-Country Club Party- Everyone dresses up in their finest golfing clothes and brings their favorite clubs. Throw Caddyshack and PGA highlights on every TV. Make everyone call each other Muffy or Blaine. Talk about the stock market and how this country club is going to Hell with the inclusion of so many women members and those pesky negros. Drink of choice for the party…what do stuffy rich white people drink? Cosmos? Gin and Tonics? I’ll have to wikipedia this.

5-Lame Celebrity Party- Tell everyone to dress like their favorite lame celebrity who acts retarded. Britney, Paris, Dog the Bounty Hunter, whoever you want. Act like your house is a swank club. Make people wait out front of your place in a long line. Have your largest friend act like a bouncer, and tell everyone they have to be on the list or have 15 girls with them to get in. Once inside, play shitty music and make everyone pay $20 for a watered down drink. This sounds like a fun party right? Now, you don’t have to go to the club to have a club experience!

4- Wayne Newton Party- This idea came from Vicki Garretson. Everyone dresses like Wayne Newton or a 50 year old lady who wants to bang Wayne Newton. We play Wayne Newton music all night long, you can dance like Wayne did on ‘Dancing with the Stars’. Everyone drinks White Wine. The various Waynes will be given keys to bedrooms in the house, which they can invite the 50 year old ladies up to their swinging bachelor pad. This is such a good idea, I think I might have this party next weekend.

3-Christian Bible Study Camp Party- Everyone has to dress like a teenage Christian Bible Study Camper. There will be bible scripture readings, prayer, and bible camp sing-a-longs. You can sneak into the camper’s bunk bed rooms, where the real fun begins… drugs, premarital sex, and sneaking booze into your juice boxes. The camper who can recite the most scripture while appearing the most intoxicated wins! What do you win? Ahhhh, a bronze statue of God? Does that sound cool? It does to me. Praise Jesus.

2-Stolen Booze Party- BYOB for this party… with a catch. Every person who comes to the party has to steal the liquor from somewhere; be it a store, your next-door neighbor, another party, the police station etc. Any party goers who has video footage of the theft with be praised and their video will be shown on the giant TV screen. The most fun part of this party is when the cops show up with angry people who had their booze ripped from their hands, and the arrests that follow. Make sure to bring bail!

1-Predeath funeral party- You fake the death of the person who is throwing the party, maybe in the same way they faked Butters death on South Park by throwing a pig off of a building and saying it was the host commiting suicide. You tell everyone to show up in black and that there will be a wake. You put a coffin in the house, fill up the home with flower arrangements. During the wake, everyone will get up and speak about the host. At the perfect time, the host jumps out of the casket and says SURPRISE! Now everyone gets to party with the dead guy! You can even drink embalming fluid for a fun effect. Genius, especially if you get to watch all your friends cry and tell sad stories about you passing on. Man, I can’t wait to have this party!

So there you go. Don’t invite me to your ‘lame keg beer with no theme’ party. Spice things up and show me a good time!

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

The Death of the Entertainment Industry

Five years ago, I decided to give up my well paying career as an apartment manager to pursue my dream; making movies, writing and working on music. More and more I realize, I dedicated my life to the pursuit of a slowly growing funeral march.

The entertainment industry is dying a slow death and I got in right as it went on life support.

With a ton of new media outlets out there, you would think that there would be a larger market for people to purchase music, movies, TV, and writing. I thought so…

As I type this, there is a growing cacophony of yelling and honking horns outside my little window from a mob of striking Writer’s Guild of America writers and their supporters. I’m glancing through Rolling Stone magazine, which tells me of more disappointing sales of music, so much so that Best Buy and other large market music vendors are cutting back store space to music, so much so that places like Target might not even have music in their stores in a couple years. Tower Records, my former employer from college, has already gone out of business and many other record stores are following suit.

But that’s not all…

Their appears to be no end in sight for the writers guild strike, both sides are that far apart.

TV will soon be dominated by more and more ‘reality’ shows, because that’s the only thing that can go on TV without writers. Goodbye new season of "Lost", hello “Who wants to fuck a millionaire.”

Both the Director’s Guild of America and the Screen Actors Guild contracts are coming up in July, leading to possibly to another massive set of strikes.

The internet has led attention spans to be peanut size, any more content than a couple of minutes equals yawns from the new generation of kids.

And finally the worst- Revenue from all media is down every year for the past couple of years.

All of this is happening as I’m getting closer to the end of my tenure here at the Warner Bros. I’m going to have to find another job soon. Where? How? With whom?

Then there is my whole 'career' as a writer/director. I have scripts that I want to start selling. That can’t happen until after the strike.

Plus, I have a short movie that I'm working on that at this rate is never going to get finished.

Now, I sit here wondering why I did this? I know I didn’t expect to make a fortune getting into this industry, at least I didn’t care if I did. But I want to be able to support myself. I have a huge student loan payment to make every month from my investment in my movie making education. I’d like to start a family at some point. I’d like to be able to go a month without asking my mom for money to support my life in Hollywood.

I guess I did it for the love of all things media. But just like a marriage that happened for the wrong reasons, I’m falling out of love for this entire industry and the fickle tastes of the American Public.

Now if I could just get my old job back managing apartments…

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

President George W. Bush against the Triple Burger- The Final Chapter.

The continuing saga of Chef Mike and George W. Bush at Fat Burger; high as a kite and sitting in front of multiple pounds of hamburger.

(George W. Bush stares at his Triple King Burger. He shakes his head and rubs his eyes.)

Mike- Just eat it yo. You said you could handle it bitch. Don’t puss out now.

George- Michael, I'm a patient man. And when I say I'm a patient man, I mean I'm a patient man. Maybe, you know, I need to take this one step at a time.

M- Fine, step one. Put the muthafuckin’ burger in your mouth. Step two, chew that shit up. Step three swallerrrrrrr that bitch up. I sure you know all about swallllllllllleeeeeeerrrrinnnnn’.

G- And one of the things we've got to make sure that we do is anything.

M- What the fuck does that mean? Damn yo, I think you done smoked yourself retarded.

(George picks up the burger and takes a huge bite.)

G- Hamburgers. The cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast. Ummm, this is a tasty burger. Mind if I have some of your tasty beverage to wash this down with?

M- You’ve got your own… very clever muthafucka.

(George has his mouth full.)


M- Pulp Fiction… never mind.

(George devours half of the burger in two bites.)

M- Whoa, slow your roll G. You’re going to get sick putting that much beef in your system that fast.

G- When I take action, I'm not going to fire a $2 million missile at a $10 empty tent and hit a camel in the butt. It's going to be decisive.

M- That’s fine, but don’t get yourself sick. You’ve still gotta go to that fire shit down in San Diego…

G- Oh damn. Oh no. Michael, don’t make me go down there. You know, the thing about fire is… it’s bad. And I’m… too high. I know what I believe. I will continue to articulate what I believe and what I believe — I believe what I believe is right. Man, I’m high.

M- Don’t bug out bitch. Just finish your burger, nice and slow. Damn, I knew I shouldn’t let you smoke that much shit. Now, I’m responsible.

G- No one is responsible Michael. Its God’s will for the events of this afternoon to happen. I’m going to be fine. I feel better already.

M- Good, the tide’s finally turning.

G- I think -- tide turning -- see, as I remember -- I was raised in the desert, but tides kind of -- it's easy to see a tide turn -- did I say those words?

M- Fuck, we’re screwed.

(Suddenly, two Secret Service agents run into the FatBurger.)

Secret Service- We have to go mister President. We’re scheduled to be in San Diego in one hour.

G- You know, I don’t know. Do we really have to go down there?

SS- Yes sir. Its important, like Katrina. But with fire this time.

G- Michael, as my Secretary of Fire Stuff, what do you advise me to do?

M- I’m not your… fine. I advise that you go down there and speak to the people. Declare a state of emergency and tell everybody the whole thing’s sad. That should work.

G- Michael, you are a dear trusted friend. I will always remember this moment.

M- What moment? The fatburger you didn’t finish or the blunt we smoked?

G- What? What are we talking about?

M- You gotta run G.

G- That’s right. Goodbye Michael.

(George and the Secret Service run out. Mike eats his food…)

M- Shit G! How am I supposed to get home?

(Mike sighs and goes back to eating.)

THE END… or is it!?!?!?!?!?!

Monday, November 5, 2007

Chef Mike and President go to FatBurger Part Two

The continuing story of Chef Mike and George Walker Bush high as a kite at FatBurger.

(Mike and George sit in front of the jukebox, waiting for their FatBurger to arrive. )

Mike- Man, they play the dumbest shit in this place. Why I gotta listen to Madonna? Huh? Why? It’s fucking up my appetite, this bullshit-ass gay-ass music bullshit.

George- I feel like Madonna is singing to me. Her voice is inside my head and I can’t get it out. I shake my head and BOOM, she’s still there. She’s wearing that pointy bra from the 90’s, the one from the Vogue video. Wait, she just had a costume change, now she’s wearing the wedding dress from the VMA’s.

M- What the fuck does Like a Virgin mean anyway? I know that they talk about that shit in Reservoir Dogs, but that shit that Quentin Tarrantino said in the movie made less sense than this muthafuckin’ song. I’ll show Madonna’s ass some tight virgin shit.

G- I’m so high. Michael, what am I going to do? I’ve gotta sober up.

M- I told your ass to not chief the shit out of that blunt. I know you’re the Commander in Chief, but that doesn’t mean you have to Chief the blunt dawg.

G- I have a lot of stuff to do today. I’ve gotta sober up. I’ve gotta sober up. I’ve gotta sober up.

M- You’re repeating yourself. You’re annoying the shit outta me.

G- See, in my line of work you got to keep repeating things over and over and over again for the truth to sink in, to kind of catapult the propaganda.

M- Propaganda? What the fuck are you talking about?

G- Well, you know, the thing about propaganda is… What are we talking about?

M- Fuck it yo. The food’s on it way out.

(The Fat Burger Employee brings out the food, a t-shirt and a camera.)

Fat Burger Employee- Number 69?

G- 69 hehehehehe.

M- Yeah, that’s us. Damn, that’s a big ass burger G.

(The FBE places the triple king burger in front of the President. He holds up the Polaroid camera.)

FBE- Smile mister President.

G- I'm thrilled to be here in the bread basket of America because it gives me a chance to remind our fellow citizens that we have an advantage here in America — we can feed ourselves.

(Mike and George smile and the FBE takes their picture. The FBE shakes his head and walks away.)

G- (whispers to Mike) Do I look high?

M- Of course you look high muthafucka, you’re high! You’re going to look high if you’re high. That’s how it works.

G- This burger is too big. I can’t eat all of that. You know, I intend to do my best. But sometimes, things happen and you know what that means when things happen, you’re best might not be... what was I talking about?

M- The burger dawg. I told your sassy Texas ass that can’t eat that shit, but you didn’t listen to me.

G- You told me that?

M- Yeah, like two times.

G- I think you’re wrong. I always listen to the members of my cabinet and make decisions based on evidence and... I thought I got Fat fries?

M- You ordered skinnys. And I’m not part of your cabinet man.

G- There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again.

(Mike eats his burger.)

M- (with his mouth full) Whaaa yoo tallliin’ bout?

G- How am I going to finish this thing? Man, I'm too high.

(To be continued in the final chapter, George versus the big ass burger!)

Friday, November 2, 2007

My friend Chef Mike and President George W. Bush go to Fatburger.

The other day, my buddy Chef Mike smoked a bunch of pot with George W. Bush. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s the president of the United States. What does Mike do after he smokes? He goes to Fat Burger of course.

(Mike and George walk into Fat Burger. An enormous line turns around and looks at the President, Mike and the several Secret Service agents that follow.)

Mike- Fuck. Muthafuckin’ long ass line yo. Every time I’m here, there’s a muthafuckin’ long ass line.

George- Michael, Michael, Michael you forget who I am. (clears throat and annunciates) Fellow Americans. I’m pleased to be here at this fine eating establishment. I encourage you to get out there and help the US economy by spending money. As our your honored guest, I appreciate your hospitality of letting me and my colored friend here enjoy the tasty burger goodness.

(George and Mike walk to the front of the line. The costumers curse under their breath. The Secret Service grab the costumers and pull them outside.)

M- Nice job G. I got get me some of those black suit muthafuckas. Whatcho getting’ bitch?

G- I got a lot of Ph.D.-types and smart people around me who come into the Oval Office and say, 'Mr. President, here's what's on my mind.' And I listen carefully to their advice. But having gathered the advice, I decide, you know, I say, 'This is what we're going to do.'

M- What muthafuckin’ burger you getting dawg?

G- My job is a decision-making job, and as a result, I make a lot of decisions. I’m going to get the triple king burger.

M- What? No way muthafucka. That’s the shit that gets yo’ picture on the wall and you get that T-shirt. Your sweet Texas ass can’t hold that much shit, it’ll explode and shit.

G- You misunderestimate me.

(The Fat Burger employee clears his throat.)

Fat Burger Employee- Welcome to Fat Burger. How can I help you?

G- Hello my Latin friend. Has anyone told you that you look like Alberto Gonzales? He he he.

FBE- Ah no.

G- Well Alberto, you know. When I’m hungry, I’m hungry. And right now, I’m hungry. I’d like your finest triple king burger sir, with skinny fries and a large coke.

M- Are you sure about that man? Last chance to change your mind bitch.

G- We’re going to stay the course Michael. Whoa, I just realized. I’m really high.

M- Of course you are bitch. We smoked a big ass blunt of that chronic shit. That’s why I’m saying yo, don’t do this triple burger shit man.

G- Too late. Process my order Pedro.

FBE- What about you sir, what can I get you?

M- Oh yeah, hey G, I need to borrow some cash. Dayn’s got all my money.

G- You never have money Michael.

M- I got money, I just give it to Dayn. That way, I don’t spend money. He’s like my bank.

G- It’s okay, this one is on the government.

M- That’s what I like to hear. I’ll take a king burger with bacon, egg and cheese. I’ll take fat fries and a lemonade.

FBE- That will be $26.53.

G- Good Lord that’s a lot of money for some burgers.

M- It’s worth it yo.

(George pays for the burgers)

FBE- Here’s your change and your number sir. We’ll bring your food out to you. Have a great day.

G- Thank you my fellow American. You know, this burger is important to the American people. This business is important to America.

(George and Mike take the number and sit down next to the jukebox.)

G- I’m so high Michael. I think I might have smoked too much.

M- Hell no, once you eat that huge burger, you’re going to need to smoke again to get a 15 pound shit out yo’ ass.

G- I hope this food gets here soon…

(To be continued in episode two… the jukebox and the triple burger arrives!)